When Fates Collide
by Langus
Summary: Killian Jones is a young Detective in the Boston PD struggling to make a name for himself. During a routine arrest he encounters a ghost from his past, a girl by the name of Emma Swan. Can he right a twenty year-old wrong, or does fate have something else in store? Captain Swan AU. Crime drama/romance. Rated for language and (future) sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

_When Fates Collide_

The heavy slap of their shoes against the pavement reverberated off the alley's ancient brick walls, making it sound as though there were thirty of them tearing through that narrow space instead of two.

"Police! Stop!"

He shouted the futile phrase with as much authority as he could muster. With a furtive glance back over her shoulder, the suspect quickened her pace. When did that line ever work? _Breaking and Entering. Possession of Stolen Property. Resisting arrest._ He added the charges up in his head, mentally calculating whether it was worth his effort to keep up the pursuit.

The girl was surprisingly fast and agile, seeming to vault over fences and squeak through gates without the slightest bit of trouble. She squeezed through a small gap in the wooden fence dividing the alley ahead of them, and disappeared from view. Using a pile of crates as makeshift stairs, he launched himself over the ten foot high blockade. The girl was half a block down on the other side, but not so far that she was out of reach.

The radio at his shoulder suddenly crackled to life. "Jones, where are you? Do you require back up?"

Bugger all. "I'm fine," he barked into the receiver. "Heading east toward the docks."

His radio crackled again and then went silent. In a flash of blond hair, the girl disappeared around a corner and he redoubled his efforts. Like hell he was going to be made to look a fool by some grubby, little thief who likely-

_WHAM!_

His back met the pavement with no small amount of force. He stared unblinkingly at the patch of inky black sky above while his mind did a brief internal assessment. He was alive. Nothing was broken. He sucked in a ragged breath and pain lanced through his side. Well, maybe something was broken. Or a few somethings. Damn. He hadn't even seen it coming. He took a few experimental breaths just to be sure his lungs were working before lifting his head.

From the corner of his eye he saw the faint metallic gleam of a lead pipe. Jesus Christ, why did it have to be a pipe? The girl edged closer, her movements timid and unpredictable, until she was standing over him with the pipe in hand. _Assault with a dangerous weapon. Assault on a police officer. _His mind added two more charges to her growing list. The girl's eyes narrowed menacingly and she looked as though she had every intention of finishing him off right then and there.

"I wouldn't recommend that, love," he advised and tried to sit up. He grimaced and stifled a pitiable groan as his ribs screamed in protest.

She lifted a brow in challenge and tightened her grip on the pipe. Shit. Why hadn't he asked for back up? His radio crackled to life and then went silent. The girl's eyes flickered to it briefly and he took his chance, capitalizing on her momentary distraction. He raised his tazer and pointed it at her chest. Her eyes went wide and she took a cautious step back.

"If I pull this trigger a whole lot of volts are gonna come rushing out and with that pipe in your hands you'll get a right nasty burn. So why don't you be a good lass and set it down, hmm?"

She glanced at the pipe in her hand and frowned. He'd never been good with persuasion tactics. His brother, Liam, was a natural at it. He'd talk some perp's ear off until the poor sap was practically handing himself over to be arrested and begging for forgiveness. Somehow, no matter what he said, perps seemed to do the exact opposite of whatever it was he wanted them to do.

For a brief, merciful moment it looked as though the girl might be reasonable. The bit about the pipe burning her was a lie, but he hoped she was as ignorant about science as most of the riff raff he hauled in. She was wavering - he could see it written all over her face. Then she did exactly what he'd hoped she wouldn't do and swung the pipe at his head.

His reaction was automatic – his finger pulled the trigger and the tazer brought her to her knees with 50, 000 volts. The pipe went crashing to the pavement and he slowly, achingly, rolled to his feet. He slipped his cuffs over her narrow wrists before she had the chance to recover and then painfully hauled her to her feet.

"I tried to warn you, love," he said apologetically as he pulled her towards the end of the alley.

He reached for the radio on his shoulder and it came to life with a short burst of static.

"Jones, here. Suspect has been apprehended. We're on our way out now."

"Good work, Jones. We'll see you in a minute."

The radio crackled again and then went silent. He could barely keep the sardonic smile from his lips. Barely an hour into the New Year and he'd been gifted with a collar and a set of cracked ribs. There'd never been a more fitting metaphor for his life – success one slow, painful step at a time.

oOo

The precinct was unusually quiet. The guys with families had been given the night off to spend it with their wives and kids while the rest of the lonely saps worked a double. Detective Jones strolled over to the coffee machine where his brother, Liam, was pouring a fresh cup.

"There's my baby brother! Heard about that collar - you gunning for a promotion or what?"

Expelling a long suffering sigh, he grabbed a fresh paper cup off the stack.

"Perhaps with a promotion you'll finally stop referring to me around the precinct as your _baby brother._"

Liam chuckled heartily and clapped him on the back.

"I can't help it if I'm proud of my little brother's accomplishments. How are those ribs holding up?"

He straightened, smiling through the sharp pain in his side. "Just bumps and bruises. Nothing I can't handle."

His brother studied him speculatively and his smile faded at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he knew he was lying, but he wouldn't go so far as to say anything. An injury like that could relegate him to desk duty and that was exactly what he didn't want.

"Glad to hear it," his brother said finally, his smile returning. "That girl you brought in is in Interrogation Room 1 if you're feeling up to it. Watch yourself though, she's a bit feisty."

"Yeah, I got that memo," he grumbled, taking a sip of his coffee. He grimaced and added just enough milk and sugar to make it palatable before slapping on a lid. "I'll be in Interrogation 1 if anyone asks."

Liam sent him off with a tip of his head and sauntered back to his desk. There was talk from some of the others in the precinct, rumours here and there, about how it was strange for them to work together. It'd never bothered him but he wasn't so certain the same could be said of Liam. His brother had turned down two chances at the Captain's exam that he knew of because passing it would take him out of the A-1. There was always some excuse, some reason why he couldn't be bothered, everything but the truth.

Maybe it was because of where he'd grown up and the crap hand he'd been dealt, but from the time they were kids Liam had taken it upon himself to look out for him. First in the school yard, then at the Academy, and now here. He protected him, watched his back, always put him first. After so many years alone, it felt good to have someone in his corner but things couldn't keep going like this. Something had to give.

After seven years on the force he deserved the chance to stand on his own two feet. His brother would never agree, of course, but he'd find a way to make him see reason. It was either that, or put in the transfer request that'd been sitting in his desk for the last six months. Some days he wasn't sure which would be a bigger pain in the ass.

Putting aside thoughts of Liam for the moment, he pushed open the door to Interrogation Room 1. The suspect was there waiting, seated at the table with her hands cuffed and folded neatly in front of her.

"Sorry about those," he said sincerely, "but when you assault a police officer they become mandatory."

The girl looked up just long enough to fix him with a heated glare before returning her eyes to the table. Sliding out the chair across from hers, he took a seat and pulled out his notepad.

"My ribs are fine," he quipped with a click of his pen. "In case you were wondering."

The girl said nothing, though he was certain if it were possible her eyes would have bored a hole through the table. He consoled himself with the thought that she wasn't the emotive sort and felt the burden of her remorse internally.

"Do you have a name, lass?"

The silence in the room was deafening. Exhaling a soft sigh, he flipped open the manila folder in front of him and leafed through the first few pages.

"Allison…Rogers, is it?"

She flicked the hair out of her eyes with a shake of her head and coolly met his gaze.

"We have you on camera stealing some designer watches from a jewellery shop downtown. The owner is in the other room deciding whether he wants to press charges. Not the best way to start the New Year."

With a bored look, the girl rolled her eyes and glanced away. Her metal cuffs scrapped loudly across the table as she slid her hands into her lap. Coughing lightly, Killian made a few pointless notes in her file and then clicked his pen.

"What I'm wondering," he ventured, his tone softening, "is why a nice girl like you would steal a bunch of watches."

She snorted indignantly and sat back against her chair. "Try spending your whole life in and out of foster homes, or working an honest job only to get fired because a co-worker decides to tell your boss that you spent time in juvi. A lot of things can make a "nice girl" girl steal a bunch of watches. But hey, maybe I just thought they looked pretty."

The cool detachment in her gaze hit a little too close to home. His own eyes had held that same look once, long ago.

"I get it," he said, flipping his notebook shut. "I spent some time in the foster system myself. Lived in a _charming_ little red brick apartment down on Bond Street. Sometimes life deals you a crap hand and when it does you have two choices - wallow in it or rise above it."

The irony of telling this girl that she had to rise above her circumstances while, a year after the fact, he was still struggling to accept that his wife had left him wasn't lost on him.

"Based on our little run in earlier I'd say you're not the type to give up without a fight, so I'm going to give you the opportunity to help yourself - who told you to steal the watches?"

"No one," she answered distractedly and then, "Did you say you lived on Bond Street? 301 Bond?"

"Aye, that's the one," he replied warily.

She leaned forward, the links of her handcuffs clinking against the table. "What's your name?"

"Detective Jones. Killian Jones."

The fight seemed to evaporate out of her in a single breath. Releasing her hold on the table she sat back and shook her head in disbelief.

"It's not possible," she muttered. Her brow furrowed as her eyes raked over his features. "I'm guessing that about twenty years ago you lived at 301 Bond?"

It was a time in his life he'd prefer to forget, but he reluctantly nodded his head. The Bond Street residence, run by Donald and Arlene McCormack, had been about as far from a nurturing home environment as could be found in the Boston foster care system. Countless nights without supper, a dirty mattress on the floor as his bed, and days spent hiding from the bullies who lived in the building. He'd called that place 'home' from the ages of 7-10, before fate stepped in and he was adopted by the Jones family. If she knew of Bond Street, or God forbid, spent any time there, it was reason enough she'd turned out the way she had.

"I was there, too" she told him evenly. "Though back then I had a different name. Maybe you remember – Emma Swan?"

Killian blinked, momentarily taken aback. Emma…Swan? He hadn't thought about that name or the girl it belonged to in years. During their time on Bond Street she'd been quiet, fragile and always in need of protection. From almost the day she arrived they were inseparable – first out of necessity, and later because they realized they were the only family each other had. That was, until the day the Jones family had arrived to take him away. Without so much as a goodbye he'd left her alone in that place. A wave of guilt crashed over him and he swallowed hard, suddenly regretting his coffee from earlier.

Her expression of shocked surprise melted into a cynical sort of smile and she leaned back against her chair.

"Cry baby, Killy," she mused, reminding him of his childhood moniker. "Do the boys still call you that? Can't say I'm surprised you decided to become a cop."

His mouth went dry and he took a hurried sip of his coffee to clear his throat. What was the proper way to respond in this sort of situation? How does one confront a ghost from their past? He hadn't a damn clue, so he did what he usually did and fumbled along.

"It's been a long time since anyone has called me that," he managed, his voice rougher than he would've liked.

She responded with a snort. "I'll bet. It's good to see you again, Killian."

"I only wish it'd been under better circumstances. You didn't have to try and beat my head in with a lead pipe, you know."

She lifted her shoulders and a smile toyed with the corners of her mouth. Killian sat back against his chair and wondered what the hell his next move was supposed to be. He couldn't very well put her back on the street and it felt wrong to lock her up given the circumstances. Expelling a short sigh, he pushed his chair back and headed for the door.

"Sit tight. I'll be back soon," he promised, closing the door quietly behind him.

Liam was waiting on the other side of the two-way mirror, his expression troubled.

"What kind of interrogation tactic was that?"

Killian closed his eyes and rested his head against the door.

"She and I grew up in the same foster home," he explained. "Back then we were as close as two friends can be and then I…left."

"You didn't leave her," Liam reminded him. "What could you have possibly done at that age? This is ridiculous, Killian. Don't let her get under your skin."

He firmly shook his head. "Don't you get it? That could be me sitting in that chair. I could have turned out just like her. She's not unredeemable, Liam. She just needs a helping hand."

"She's not your problem and she sure as hell isn't some charity case you can fix. Listen, I know things haven't been right since Lauren left but this is not the way to deal with it."

He fixed his brother with a hard look, his jaw stubbornly set. His ex-wife was a touchy subject, one he didn't appreciate being brought up in the least. There'd been an unspoken agreement between them over the past year never to speak of her. Not after how everything went down. For Liam to bring her up now, it was obvious he was concerned but it only made him more determined. He'd dealt with enough crap in the last year to last a lifetime. He was due for a bit of good. Maybe that was this girl, maybe it wasn't, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let the opportunity walk out the door.

Recognizing defeat when he saw it, Liam heaved a sigh and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Always the bleeding heart," he chided, giving him a light shake as though to shake some sense into him. When his hand fell away and he retreated towards the squad room offering a muttered warning of "Don't say I didn't warn you" back over his shoulder.

Killian watched him go and scrubbed a weary hand over his features. Reluctant as he was to admit it, Liam had a point. This was irrational and reckless and foolish but he needed it. Maybe it was only misplaced guilt, but he felt obligated – no, driven – to do right by her. To take care of her the way he should have and couldn't all those years ago. Sure, it'd probably come back to bite him in the ass but he had to at least give it a try. What sort of man would he be if he didn't?

Pushing off the wall, he straightened his shoulders and walked purposefully towards the Captain's office.

_Author's Note: _I'd love to hear your thoughts! Please take a moment to leave a review. I do my best to reply to all of them.


	2. Chapter 2

The lock on his apartment door turned over with a dull click and he hesitated. Bringing her to his place had seemed like a great, noble idea right up until he'd pulled into his parking spot three stories below and turned off the car. _What the hell am I doing? _He glanced back over his shoulder at girl standing behind him and offered her a weak smile. Emma Swan. He thought he'd never see her again and yet there she was, a ghost from his past and a virtual stranger.

Their eyes met and she smiled in return but the expression stopped just short of her eyes. _You're either stupid or insane – which is it? _The Captain of District A-1 didn't mince his words – he told you exactly what he thought and to hell with your ego. Most days Killian appreciated the man's brutal honesty, but tonight his patience had been sorely tested. Yes, he knew what he was doing. At least, he hoped he did. Yes, he was aware that she was a convicted thief who could rob him blind in the middle of the night. Yes, he knew the consequences if she skipped town. The Captain would have him chained to his desk 'til Christ came and he could kiss any hope of working with the SIU goodbye.

Hell, maybe he was crazy. He had to be to think this was a good idea. What sort of sane person stakes his career on bailing a woman he barely knows out of jail and then offers to let her stay on his couch? Maybe she'd hit him in the head with that pipe after all. It was the only thing that could explain his temporary lack of judgement. But it was too late to turn back now, so he pushed the door in with his shoulder and ushered her inside.

His apartment was a testament to the chaos in his personal life – the place was a fucking mess. Before Lauren he'd been fastidious to a fault. It used to drive her nuts the way he folded his underwear in the drawer and arranged the books on the shelf just so. All that had gone to hell when their relationship had. There just didn't seem to be a point to it anymore.

He flicked on the hall light and took a quick look around. The sink was overflowing with dirty dishes, some of them a week old, and the living room was no better. Every available surface was strewn with newspapers, case files and take out containers. He wasn't sure which was more disconcerting – the fact that this would be her first impression of him after twenty years, or that his apartment had, on occasion (usually after a run in with Lauren), looked significantly worse.

"Come on in," he said, suppressing a defeated sigh. He stepped into the kitchen and positioned himself in front of the mountain of dishes. To her credit, she didn't seem appalled by the mess, merely curious as her eyes glanced about the space.

"Don't mind the clutter. It's the maid's day off."

Her mouth turned upwards at the joke and she made her way into the living room. She took up a spot in front of the window and peered down at the street below. It wasn't much of a view – old trees with naked branches, apartments too close across the way, a street clogged with cars parked illegally on either side. She turned from the window and looked about the room, her eyes sweeping over the bookshelves, worn leather couch, old record stand, and TV.

"You've got a nice place here," she said sincerely. "I'm glad things worked out for you."

His face grew hot at the implication behind her words and he kept his head bowed as he tried to stack the newspapers littered across his floor into some semblance of order. She flopped down onto his couch with a sigh and studied the various manila folders strewn about his coffee table.

"These cases?" she asked while her fingers idly flipped through pages.

"Cold cases mostly," he replied.

"Why do you do it?"

"Because the families deserve an answer."

She nodded thoughtfully and opened up a folder. Her features paled as she sorted through a set of particularly gruesome crime scene photos and she quickly shut it again.

"Think you'll ever catch any of these guys?"

"Perhaps," he shrugged. "I figure the odds of that are as good as the odds of you telling me who you work for."

She snickered softly then gave up on the folders altogether and leaned back against the couch. Her eyes drifted closed and he wondered how long it'd been since she'd last had a bed of her own to sleep in.

"Would you like a drink?"

She opened her eyes slowly and gazed up at the ceiling. "What do you have?"

"Beer, vodka, rum and a bit of Johnnie Walker."

"Johnnie and I are old friends," she replied with a hint of a smile.

Killian headed to the kitchen and retrieved the whisky from the freezer. When he turned around, she was behind him leaning back against his counter.

"Care to pass me two glasses from the cupboard behind your head?"

Emma reached back and set two short glasses on the counter in front of him. He tossed a couple of ice cubes into each and then a splash of the whisky. He handed her one glass and then took up the other, holding it out to her for a toast.

"To old friends," he said with a faint smile.

Emma lifted a brow and her glass a little higher then took a sip.

They stood in silence a moment, neither entirely sure where to begin getting reacquainted after 20 years apart.

"Do you have a wife? Kids?" Emma probed, diverting her gaze to the pile of dishes in his sink.

His expression darkened and when he spoke his words were cool, laced with a bitterness he couldn't contain.

"Not anymore."

A fleeting look of sympathy crossed her features and just as quickly it was gone.

"Sorry," she said softly and he shrugged. "Where did you go after Bond Street?"

"We hung around Boston for a while 'til my father took a job at an architectural firm in London. Came back just in time for freshman year."

"That explains the accent."

His lips turned up at the corners and he took a sip of his drink. "What about you?"

"Here and there," she replied with a nonchalant wave of her hand. "The day I turned 18 they kicked me out of the foster system and I was on my own with no job, no money and no place to go. I made do."

It didn't seem fair. Practically overnight he'd been plucked out of that shithole they'd called a 'home' and delivered into a new life with a loving family and opportunities he couldn't even begin to imagine. Why him instead of her? His eyes travelled over her too-thin frame and guilt swirled in the pit of his stomach. She'd had to claw her way out of that hell on her own. There'd been no one there to protect her, no one to offer kindness or a helping hand. The world hadn't been kind to Emma Swan for no other reason than she'd had the unfortunate bad luck to be born to deadbeat parents.

"I'm sorry," he said softly and meant it.

She rolled her eyes and finished what was left of her drink, "Don't be."

She set the empty glass on the counter and he looked down at his own, realizing that he'd only taken a single sip. Tossing back the rest to catch up, he set his glass next to hers and filled them both with a little more liquid courage.

"Why are you helping me?"

"For old times' sake," he replied, his expression lifting as memories came flooding back.

Emma scoffed and snatched up her drink, "Whatever."

"Look, I know you don't have any reason to trust me, but I can help you if you'll let me."

Her gaze narrowed speculatively and she downed her drink in three gulps. She pushed the empty glass onto the counter and then took a step towards him. Her hands went to his belt and his brows shot up, the whisky in his hand forgotten.

"You help me, I help you, right?"

She offered him a coy smile that didn't quite reach her eyes and his belt came loose in her hands. Her fingers went to the button of his pants next, twisting it open, and then her hand wound round his neck, pulling his lips to hers. Her mouth was warm and firm and tasted of whisky. She tugged his bottom lip into her mouth as her body pressed against his, trapping him against the counter.

It'd been a long time since he'd been close to anyone. Not since Lauren had left and even before then… Hell, even his brother didn't know that. His hand pressed tentatively against her back, hardly daring to touch her at first, and then harder, drawing her close. Her fingers dragged through his hair and a soft moan escaped his lips. God, it felt good – too good – so good he couldn't think straight. His brain was struggling to catch up. Why was she-? Did she think-? The dots finally connected into place and he froze. The effect was immediate, like a shot of ice water in his veins. Oh _shit_.

Stifling a groan of protest, he gently but firmly pulled away and held her at arm's length. She looked up at him, her expression wavering between annoyance and confusion.

"What's wrong?"

"You don't need to do this. God, Emma, this isn't what I had in mind when I offered my couch for the night."

"Then what _did_ you have in mind?" she snapped, shrugging out of his reach.

"To help an old friend, that's all. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression I wanted more."

Her features lifted in a brief look of surprise and then darkened into a scowl as the sting of rejection set in.

"Go to hell, Killian," she spat, her words filled with malice.

Snatching the bottle of whisky off the counter, she took it with her to the couch. He exhaled, low and long, and drank what was left in his glass. The alcohol burned his throat on the way down but he could still taste her, still feel the heat of her body pressed against his and the fire thrumming through his veins.

He hadn't even considered doing that with her until her lips were on his and now it was damn near all he could think about. He glanced over at the couch and found her stretched out with his TV remote in one hand and his bottle of JW in the other. He supposed he could begrudge her the bottle. It may even help her hate him a little less in the morning.

He raked a hand through his hair then fixed his pants. There was exactly zero chance he was ever telling Liam this story. He'd never hear the end of it. With a reluctant look at his house guest, he retrieved a spare pillow and blanket from the closet and set them at the end of the couch. She kept her eyes on the TV screen, her jaw working furiously. Defeated, he bid her a quiet 'goodnight' and then headed for his room.

oOo

He dreamed about her that night for the first time in years. They were at the old apartment on Bond Street, sitting atop the stoop, inspecting their shoes.

"Hey, look! It's cry baby Killy!"

He looked up and saw their grubby faces leering at him out the window. Before she came that was all he heard, day in and day out, 'cry baby Killy', 'cry baby Killy'. The day she arrived all of that changed. She was new and still young enough to be vulnerable. The vultures in their building preyed on weakness of any kind. Their attention wasn't focused on him anymore, it was focused on her and he knew he couldn't let them hurt her. He couldn't let her go through what he had.

"I hate it when they call me 'Princess'," he heard her say sadly.

"Why? It's true, isn't it?"

She looked up at him, her green eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears.

"You're a princess and I'm a mean old pirate."

She giggled and shook her head then rested her chin on her knees.

"Come on! I'll teach you how to sword fight!"

They play fought with sticks, pretending to stab one another and die elaborate deaths. When he managed to knock her stick out of her hand she surprised him by tackling him to the ground. They laughed together, a rare sound in their neighbourhood, and then she kissed him full on the lips. He shyly kissed her back and when he opened his eyes they weren't children anymore. Her green eyes sparkled beneath him, flashing with mischief. Their limbs entwined, their touches anything but innocent. He buried his face in the side of her neck and sampled the soft patch of skin beneath her ear.

"Killian, please," she pleaded between moans, "Please, I need you."

His eyes snapped open and went immediately to the clock – 6:58 AM. Bloody hell. It was only a dream. He turned off the alarm and sat up with a groan. The sheets clung to the cold sweat covering his naked torso and he swiped a weary hand across his features. Twenty-four hours in and she was already haunting his dreams. That had to be some kind of record.

Dragging a hand through his hair, he managed to crawl out of bed and make his way to the shower. He had to figure out what to do about the girl on his couch. Once upon a time she was his best friend, his family, but a lot had happened in the twenty years since they'd last seen one another. She couldn't stay, that much was obvious to him now, but after last night he wasn't all that sure she'd accept his help either.

In less than half an hour he'd managed to shower, shave and find something respectable to wear. He wasn't certain what he'd find when he entered the kitchen. What he didn't expect to see was his sink of dirty dishes cleaned and drying in the rack atop the counter. Emma was sleeping soundly on his couch, curled up in the fetal position beneath the blanket. It was only then that he realized he'd fully expected her to steal away in the middle of the night. The fact that she hadn't caught him off guard, as did the fleeting smile of relief that crossed his lips. Did he really want her to leave?

Mercifully, good sense kicked in and quieted the voice that told him that her being there felt right somehow, and if he were being honest with himself he'd ask her to stay. Scratching nervously at the back of his head, he decided to occupy his mind with something more productive – like making breakfast.

Just as he was sliding the last of the eggs onto a plate she sat up on the couch, her hair thoroughly mussed.

"Morning," he greeted cheerfully. She groaned in response and stretched before dragging herself up off the couch and stumbling over to the counter.

"I made breakfast. Here." He slid a plate of toast, scrambled eggs and a couple strips of bacon in front of her. "I hope you're not a vegan."

She yawned and glanced pointedly at the coffee pot steaming and gurgling behind him. Taking his cue, he poured her a fresh cup and set some milk and sugar on the counter.

"I'm due at the precinct in an hour," he explained between bites. "There's fresh towels in the bathroom and some food in the fridge."

He glanced up but she was preoccupied with her coffee. She sipped it slowly and stared unseeingly at the countertop. Undaunted, he shovelled a few more bites of food into his mouth, hurriedly swallowed, then added, "There's Netflix, too, in case you get bored. I should be back around 9."

She lifted a brow and picked at a piece of bacon. "Long day."

He shrugged and slid his empty plate into the sink. "Sure, but with any luck I won't get my ribs beaten in with a lead pipe."

His pitiful attempt at humour worked. She snickered into her coffee while he scratched out the precinct's number and his cell on a notepad.

"Just in case," he said, leaving it on the counter. "When I get back later we can talk about next steps – getting you a place of your own, a job, all that."

"Sure thing."

Her flippant attitude caught him off guard and he hesitated between the kitchen and the door. He'd expected more of a fight, at least a token resistance, but she merely shrugged and slipped a bite of eggs into her mouth. Maybe he'd read her wrong after all.

"I know I probably don't have to remind you, but this is only a conditional release. If you leave this apartment without me, they'll haul you in to lock up and there won't be anything I can do."

"Sure," she said dismissively without meeting his eye. "I understand."

He wasn't entirely certain he could trust her to stay, but with the clock ticking and rush hour traffic not getting any lighter, he didn't have the luxury of time to dwell on it.

"Hey, Killian?"

He paused on his way to the door and turned back. Sleep had softened her; the hard lines of her mouth had vanished and her narrow shoulders had lost some of their rigidity. Even with her hair mussed and the remnants of the previous day's make up streaked beneath her eyes, she was beautiful enough to make any man stop in his tracks. Her eyes met his for a brief, meaningful moment, then looked away.

"Thanks."

Something in his chest fluttered and he stamped it down before it could take root. He couldn't get attached. Once feelings got involved things became messy and his life (and his apartment!) couldn't handle any more mess. _Too late_, a voice inside his head taunted, and he knew it was right. Retreating towards the door, he masked his momentary panic behind a too-casual "I'll see you later" then left.

The door slammed shut behind him and he leaned back against it, finding himself at war over whether to stay or go. In the end responsibility won out and his feet moved doggedly towards the stairs, but it was a hollow victory. He'd known it the moment he saw her asleep atop his couch. He was fucked. Well and truly fucked, and there wasn't a single prayer in the Bible that could save him now.

* * *

_Author's Note: _I just wanted to give a quick shout out to **edadaldal**, **ouatcs**, and **tayaboo72** for leaving me such kind reviews on the last chapter. Your words of support were much appreciated! I hope you all enjoyed Chapter 2!

Until next time,

Langus


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